Our walk in the woods

Setting off from the Newfound Gap car park towards Icewater Spring Shelter, a measly 2.7 miles down the Appalachian Trail, Lachie and I were both worried we wouldn’t fulfill our dream. We wanted to meet someone battling their way 2181 miles along the Appalachian Trail, from Springer Mountain in Georgia to Mt. Katahdin in Maine. One of the reasons we’d come to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park was to meet Bill Bryson, author of the hilarious book, A Walk in the Woods, and his companion, Katz. Or, failing that, meet someone as funny and foolhardy as Bill was in his attempt to walk the entire length of the Appalachian Trail.

The day before, Lachie and I were eager to explore the area surrounding our campsite at Cades Cove. We were also keen to avoid battling other tourists. Most seemed determined to only leave their car to get a Kodak moment in front of National Park signs, simply to prove they were there. Before heading out on the Rich Mountain Loop Trail we took a vow not to have a Katz moment and throw the water bottle away because it was too heavy. Water bottles in hand, we ambled along the trail discussing where we would find the ingredients to make smores that night. “But did you see a supermarket in Gatlinburg? Maybe we could look in Pige- argh, a bear!”

A safe place to hide from bears.

It stood thirty feet off the side of the trail, one paw poised in mid air, staring intently at our panicked faces. Frantically, we scrambled back past each other to what appeared to be a safe distance.

“Are we supposed to keep eye contact with a black bear or try and be big and scary?”

“Black bear? It’s got a brown stripe across its back.”

“Are there even brown bears in the Smoky Mountains?”

“I dunno. You read the National Park brochure this morning.”

“Yeah, I read it out to you. What did I say?”

“Wait, wait. It’s walking away. I think we’re OK. Quick, get your camera out!”

From then on, large sticks and rocks accompanied our water bottles as we continued along the trail, glancing furtively over our shoulders every few minutes to check we weren’t being stalked. 

“Bill Bryson saw a bear, didn’t he?”

“Yep. But we handled it so much better.”

Back on the Appalachian Trail, in the first five hundred feet of our paltry hike, all we’d seen were half a dozen dawdlers, already further from their cars than they probably should have been, and a fit family of four, far too clean and cheery to have been through-hikers. Oddly, five hundred feet seemed to be most people’s limit – we had the trail to ourselves after that, until we reached the shelter.

 “It’s April now,” mused the through-hiker, standing outside Icewater Spring Shelter, his home for the night in the park. “I have to be in Chicago on September 10th. Not sure if we’ll have enough time to make it all the way to Mt. Katahdin.”

The Appalachian Trail at Newfound Gap.

Lachie and I frowned, both doing the maths in our heads, but still excited about happening upon a through-hiker. For the next five months he had no other plans but to walk another 1972 miles? The longest I’d ever hiked was three weeks. The furthest I’d ever driven was Melbourne to Byron Bay, a grand total of 1053 miles. I pulled out my phone and saved “Appalachian Trail through-hiker finishes” into September 10 in my calendar.

“We stayed in Gatlinburg last night,” our through-hiker continued, pushing his drooping wide brimmed hat out of his eyes and picking at the melted hole in his Polartec windcheater sleeve. “Can’t say we ever expected to visit a place like that on the Appalachian Trail.”

Lachie and I nodded vigorously, remembering the carnival-like town we’d driven through a few days before. The dense, green and brown patterns that formed the Smoky Mountains sat in stark contrast to the disposability of Gatlinburg. Multi-storey minigolf courses and go-kart tracks lined the main street. Glowing fast food vendor signs reached up between buildings. Ye olde candy stores and gift shops vied for our attention. It didn’t exactly feel like the gateway town to one of the most popular National Parks in the United States.

“Yeah, it wasn’t until we were driving through Gatlinburg that we realised this was the town Bill Bryson was so disappointed with,” I enthused.

“‘Disappointed’ is putting it kindly, I think,” said our through-hiker, smiling.

A blue tarpaulin covering the front of Icewater Spring Shelter rustled and a second, worn looking through-hiker staggered out, half-eaten Snickers Bar in hand. “We also found some locals in Gatlinburg last night who enjoy their whiskey,” through-hiker number one grimly informed us.

“Ermpf,” through-hiker number two offered, as he headed towards the privy.

Realising our new idols’ need for peace and quiet, Lachie and I wished them good luck and headed back towards our car at Newfound Gap, back to the world where people don’t walk 2000 miles.

It turns out black bears are the only bears that live in the Smoky Mountains. Bear and other wildlife information can be found at www.nps.gov/grsm/naturescience/animals.htm

The Great Smoky Mountains National Park straddles the Tennessee and North Carolina border. It can be reached by car via US-441 or by foot on the Appalachian Trail.

Camping at Cades Cove costs $17-$20 per night, depending on the time of year. 

There are nine other car camping grounds around the National Park. Bookings can be made at www.recreation.gov

Permits are required to stay at backcountry campsites.

Park entry is free.

Maps and other information can be found online atwww.nps.gov/grsm/planyourvisit or at the many Ranger Stations within the National Park.

Avoiding the crowds

The Spring Break crowds rolled into town last night. I can already hear the new, temporary neighbours bashing around next door, getting ready for their day of skiing. I can also hear the steady dripping of melted snow pouring off the roof outside my window. Flipping open my computer, I head for the weather report. The Weather Channel website confirms what the sounds outside my window alluded to: perfect weather for Spring Break skiing crowds.

Leisurely pulling on my woolen thermals, I consider my options for the day. Ski locally and battle the holiday crowds in Breckenridge, or jump on a bus and hope for a queue-less day at Arapahoe Basin. Without much deliberation I make my decision. I pull a bus timetable out from under a pile of discarded papers and am suddenly kicked into gear. Any more dawdling and the bus to A-Basin is leaving without me. I dash around the house, picking up the last few pieces of skiing paraphernalia I’ll need for the day. Jamming my feet into my boots and throwing my skis onto my shoulder, I don’t forget to pick up a banana for later on from the kitchen.

I am momentarily blinded as I close the front door behind me; the weather report wasn’t lying about it being sunny today. As I round the bend towards the bus stop, my heart sinks. The bus is pulling away, belching out black exhaust, obscuring the mountains behind it. Fighting the urge to turn around and head home, I walk on past the bus stop and make for the gondola connecting the town of Breckenridge to the base of the mountain. To my surprise the line at the gondola is non-existent. My spirits lift slightly.

Smiling quietly as the sun beats through the gondola window, I think back to a skiing trip with weather similar to today’s. Camped out on Victoria’s high plains in late September, the suffocating heat in our tents forced us out of our sleeping bags early. In an effort to stay cool, with the potent Australian sun attacking us from above and reflecting off the snow beneath our feet, we were forced us to eat our breakfast in our underwear while we discussed the possibilities for the day ahead. We all agreed a day trip to Mt Fainter was within our capabilities and headed back to our tents to pack our bags and put our pants on.

I wince slightly as the gondola cabin bangs loudly against the guardrail. The doors slide open to reveal hundreds of people standing in line for the chair lift. I shrug and join the back of the shortest queue.

With the sun low in sky, the white, orange and pink bark of the snow gums glowed vibrantly and the snow-covered ridgeline we had traversed earlier in the day took on a golden tinge. Because we spent so much time exploring the gullies and knolls littered along our route, we didn’t reach the summit of Mt Fainter until late in the afternoon. Unable to linger long, we pulled headlamps out of our packs for later on and started to slide back the way we had come.

“Is there snow in Australia?” a man from Boston, in Breckenridge for the week with his family, asks as we ride the T-Bar together. Despite the good snow, I am getting tired of waiting in lines. Although there are plenty of good conversations and people watching to be had, the novelty is wearing off and I make one final run back down to the gondola.

Everything looked different as the shadows around us faded to grey and eventually disappeared completely. “Does anyone remember this gully?” someone called from the gathering darkness. We all huddled together to consult the map, illuminated by six headlamps. “I think we dropped down too early. Let’s head back up onto the ridgeline.” Having regained the ridgeline, we all peered into the murk in between the trees as we skied along, trying to pick up something familiar. Just beyond the next clump of trees, the light from our headlamps shimmered off something manmade. Having recognised our tents, we all relaxed and our pace quickened, with dinner at the front of our minds.

At home, reheating half a calzone – leftovers from last night’s dinner – I consider the possibilities for tomorrow. I flip open my computer and check tomorrow’s weather forecast.

Work's out for winter

After three months of work with the Paralympic Team it's time to hang up the ski boots...and then pull them straight back down again.

Training wound up on Sunday and on Monday a U-Haul van, filled with 38 ski bags, drove away from Avon bound for Australia (via a container ship). Thankfully, my ski bag was not in it, but rather with me on its way to Breckenridge. It was with some regret that I waved goodbye to the rest of the team, standing outside the house that was going to be home for the next few months. Regret that I wouldn't get the last few rays of summer fun back in Australia; that I wouldn't see family and friends for another few months at least; that I might have forgotten the code to get into the garage of the house and would be stuck outside until someone got home. But that all quickly washed away when I turned to look at the mountain looming above me and found the piece of paper with the code on it in my pocket. 

So after three months of skiing Vail - albeit, mostly one small area - I thought I'd be ready to ski somewhere else. That's why it was odd that I found myself sliding skis into the back of the car and throwing boots over the back seat on Wednesday morning, preparing to head back to Vail. Maybe the car also thought this was slightly odd, because when I turned the ignition - nothing. Not a cough, whir or hum from the engine. Not even a light on the dash made itself known. After much frowning, trying, retrying, phone calling and bashing around the garage, a battery charger was found and my mechanic skills could be put to the test. (Yes, attaching a battery charger to a battery is counted as mechanic skills.)  An hour of impatient foot tapping and prodding of the charger later, things were back on track and I was finally on my way to Vail. 

The engine that sat between me and a day of fun.

Grilling, skiing and margaritas were the order of the day, so it was straight out to the Blue Sky Basin grilling deck. Hot dogs were already sizzling on the grill so it was just a matter of throwing one in a bun with some sauerkraut (we were with a Czech Republican) and mustard and kicking back to enjoy the view.  

It ain't called Blue Sky Basin for nothing.

With ski patrol ushering us away from the grill and with bellies full, some achingly so, it was time to hit up the Minturn Mile for a few turns. The Minturn Mile is a popular backcountry route from the top of Vail to the nearby town of Minturn, home of the Turntable Diner and Minturn Saloon. Although it was late in the day and the snow was crusting up after copping a pounding from the sun all day, we could see the appeal of the route; a consistent, uninterupted fall line, wide open turns, trees if you want them and one hell of a ski out along a several mile long luge track disguised as a valley.

The luge track to Minturn.

Waiting for us in Minturn was a Saloon full of margaritas and a weird dude in a pick up truck offering lifts back to Vail for $7. I've already described the real American experience provided by the Turntable Diner in Minturn, so it will be of little surprise that the Minturn Saloon provides another one of those experiences. Locals fill the bar, with signed photographs and letters from the likes of John Wayne, Yogi Berra, Glen Plake and Joe DiMaggio filling every square inch of wall space not taken up by giant snake skins and buffalo heads. 

Just don't look at anyone the wrong way.

The day was capped off when, with a bit of wheeling and dealing, we managed to escape the sting of the $25 parking fee at Vail.

And so with work done and still a few months left in the US of A, here's to hoping a fair majority of days end up similar to this one. But maybe without the flat battery, even though I wouldn't mind showing off my mechanic skills again. 

Skiing with locals vs Skiing with friends

It's an epic powder day in Vail. It's a Sunday. It feels like half of Denver left home at 6am to make first chair. What to do? Hook up with some locals to hunt out the best skiing lines and shortest lift lines. And what better locals to hook up with than three people who have all been skiing Vail longer than I have been on this planet. Gus, Chris and Kim - a mad tele-shredder - acted as our guides and they certainly did deliver.


The very first run had us traversing thigh deep pow, getting out of the public's view as quickly as we could, then dropping into a gully, looking for the gaps between the stately aspens. With thighs already burning and grins already a mile wide, we snuck in another lap before the lift line became our enemy. On the chair ride up I sat there in utter confusion. Names of runs and lifts were being thrown up and shot down faster than I could follow. Before I knew it we were billowing our way down another steep and deep face that I never knew existed. They clearly weren't worried about giving away their secret spots; they were skiing so fast and hard there was no chance I'd remember the particular tree you had to duck behind, or the rocks you had to drop between to find these places. The secrets didn't stop on the hill either. Chris and Kim were kind enough to share a top ranch bar that made killer nachos and margaritas.


It's a run of the mill day in Vail. It's a Friday. Friends you haven't seen in almost two years are only an hour's drive away. What to do? You get the hell in the car! So my next day off took me back over the Vail Pass to Breckenridge to drop in on Jes and JD, two friends who were in town for the week. Staying in a log cabin, keeping warm by a pot bellied stove, playing cards, cooking hearty stew and drinking tasty beers made me feel like we were in a outdoor clothing catalogue. Living up to its reputation, Breckenridge provided us with enough wind to power a small town for several weeks. Despite the sweet conditions in the bowls, the wind attempting to tear one side of our faces off on the T Bar got the better of us after three runs and we headed to lower elevations to play in the cheeky bumps. The six pack chairs also allowed for better conversation, so everyone was a winner.


Two entirely contrasting days, two entirely satisfying results.

River

I hear that variety is the spice of life, so thought I might give life's seasoning a go today. Finding a foot of accumulating snow outside my window this morning I decided to go walking instead of skiing...And I stubbed my toe, so ski boots aren't that fun at the moment. Don't tell me, I know I'm tough / a pansy. A couple of hours beside the Eagle River and I learnt some things about the place where I live. (One of the things was that I live next to the Eagle River).

A pleasant footpath found.

Limited places to rest.

My Dad got stuck in a tree.

Misleading signs - it was all sealed.

Biking is done in the summer.

A successful day. But I'm going skiing tomorrow, sore toe or not.

And it gives me a loose excuse to post this excellent song.

A brush with the law

A couple of impressions and interactions of the American road law system during yesterday's drive to Denver and back.


An unmarked police car whooped its sirens at me. The car sped up to drive beside me and the driver gave me what looked like two high fives through the window. Turning back to the road I saw that the speed limit was about to change to 55. Basing my assumptions on Hollywood I thought all American cops were rogue vigilantes, sticking it to their superiors because they were taken off a case they really cared about. Or, were slightly unhinged, solving cases in particularly unorthodox ways. Hollywood has been proven wrong!


A sign on the side of the highway reading "Notice: Correctional Facility Do Not Pick Up Hitchhikers." When I got home I watched The Shawshank Redemption. I would have picked Tim Robbins up off the side of the road if he had his thumb out. I don't think I would have had to be too worried. He probably would have done my taxes, changed the radio station to opera, then, if he had time, whittled the gear stick into a chess piece.

Music to think warm to

Play this song as you open your curtains to a bright and sunny day, empowered with the knowledge that it is -34 degrees outside.